


Silence

by My_Beating_Hart



Series: A Mahariel's Travels [37]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dalish Origin, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Missing Scene, Muteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 10:59:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3247139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The journey to Ostagar isn't easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence

The first night was the worst, Theron reflected. They had walked in silence after Duncan had explained the importance of Ostagar and the upcoming battle, south west through the forest until night fell. The small camp was pitched, the fire built, supplies eaten but not shared between the two of them. Rather than accept the offer of a spare tent from the _shemlen_ that had caused all of this, the Dalish elf chose to sleep up in a tree, furs arranged comfortably on a wide and strong enough branch. This way, he could see the stars, and try to ignore the sounds of the human below. He knew that Duncan was possibly trying to put forward a peace offering after everything that had happened. He did not need anything from a _shemlen_.

What he couldn’t ignore was how bright the fire seemed to be to his eyes, or the aches and chills that had him burrowing down into the furs, or the fact tears fell unbidden as he thought about Tamlen, Keeper Marethari and the events of the day now he finally had time to process it all.

Of course, Theron was the first to wake with the sun and the birds, as all hunters learnt. He looked down towards the tent next to the embers of the fire, and then carefully dropped to the ground on silent feet. His back hurt slightly from the uncomfortable branch, but he ignored it as he grabbed his bow and pack and slipped away from the campsite.

Duncan woke to a deserted camp. Of course, he should have expected the Dalish elf would have escaped as soon as he could. Not all were glad to have been conscripted. The Warden stared down at the ashes of the fire as he pulled his armour on, but stopped when he saw the elf had left his furs and bedroll halfway up the tree he’d chosen to sleep in. Rather than try to give chase, Duncan instead finished dressing and set about waking the fire up.

A twig snapped a few hours later, deliberately loud, and he looked up to see the Dalish elf with a brace of rabbits slung over one shoulder, his expression grim enough to make him seem older than he probably was. It was hard to tell how old elves were, sometimes; the only constant point of reference was whether they had received their _vallaslin_ or not, and even then the age that they were considered an adult differed between clans and countries. This hunter could be as young as sixteen, or as old as twenty-five, and it was almost impossible to tell.

“It will only take us a day’s walk to get to the Southron Hills.” Duncan said, digging around in his pack for a whetstone as Theron sat crosslegged on the other side of the fire, drawing out a sharp little knife that he used to gut and skin the rabbits. The elf remained silent, the slick sounds of metal cutting through fur and skin speaking instead.

“We may even get there by nightfall, if we travel quickly.” The Grey Warden added, rubbing at his beard before he started to sharpen one of his swords. Theron remained silent, offering no indication that he was even listening. Duncan tried not to take it personally. Instead, he studied the hunter as he worked diligently, hands stained with blood.

His skin colour was uncommon for the Dalish, especially in the clan he’d come from, but there was still a noticeable, almost grey pallor under it. His black hair was tightly braided and tied up, obviously for practicality, but it was long enough that one or two of the braids fell forwards over his shoulders as he bent forwards, all but hunched over the kills. Despite how tightly he gripped the knife handle, Duncan could see the telltale tremble of his fingers, the way he straightened up stiffly and rolled his neck irritably, or occasionally paused as if he’d momentarily forgotten what he was doing.

Duncan knew better than to ask whether the Dalish elf was doing well; it was another thing to remain unspoken but acknowledged between them.

The rabbits were soon turned into breakfast, Theron slipping away again to wash his hands clean of blood, and he bundled the leftover pelts into his pack before he finally decided to eat. Each movement was tightly controlled, and Duncan pretended not to notice the occasional look he was given, as if Theron was hoping he wouldn’t see how obviously he was trying not to act weak or sick, or comment on it.

Once they had eaten, Theron kicked dirt over the fire and scattered the ring of stones they’d used as Duncan packed his tent up; of course the hunter had gotten breaking camp down to a precise art, and waited for Duncan to bundle everything up and put it away long after his own things had been stowed away.

The two continued west, as quickly as Theron could manage.

 

The second night, Duncan woke halfway through the night to hear the muffled gasps and sobs from somewhere out in the darkness beyond the confines of his tent. He gave the source of the noise an empathetic look, before he turned over and tried to go back to sleep. There was nothing he could do but leave the Dalish elf to his grief.

In the morning, there was no evidence that Theron had ever cried; his face was as guarded and closed off as it always was, despite the underlying paleness at his cheeks. They ate and broke camp again, heading ceaselessly west, silence reigning. Around noon, Duncan was reassured when the trees around them started to thin and shrink; they were no longer roaming the old growth, but were at the forest’s edge. He was aware of the hunter’s pace beside him slowing gradually, and they both stopped once they reached the edge of the forest. Duncan waited patiently outside the cover of the trees.

Where a common man only saw an endless stretch of trees and undergrowth to get lost in, the Dalish saw shelter, medicine and poison, food, water, raw materials to be made into anything and everything they needed. This was all Theron had ever known.

Theron blinked in the light that no doubt was too bright for his eyes, staring out at the hilly farmlands that stretched before him. There were no trees to break up the line of the horizon or provide shade, only the hills. For the first time, he could see clearly for miles, the land and sky stretching out ahead of him, terribly exposed.

Duncan watched as the Dalish elf looked over his shoulder at the forest one last time, and then stepped out from the safety of the trees and their concealing shadows into the thick grassland of the hills. His hands were tightly clenched at his sides in an attempt to hide their shaking, and his gaze was downcast as if he was focused on picking his way through the knee-high grass rather than fighting back more tears.

It occurred to Duncan that he didn’t even know the elf’s name, unless it was Dahlen. Dallen? That had been what the Keeper had called him, hadn’t it?

 

The silence lasted until they made camp again that night; a day away from Ostagar, their fire a lone point of light amongst the farmland. With no trees close by that were strong enough to take even an elf’s weight, Theron had little choice but to accept another offer of a spare tent. Duncan was surprised that the hunter knew how to put up a tent, but then realised he had probably watched as he’d pitched and taken down his own. They sat by the fire, each in their own thoughts until the Warden finally broke the silence.

“Dahlen.” He ventured.

Theron blinked, tearing his gaze from the fire to look at the _shemlen_ in confusion, stirring from his encroaching lethargy. It took him a few seconds to realise what it was Duncan was trying to say, and when he did his face closed off into a fierce scowl, exaggerated by the dancing shadows of the firelight.

“You have no right to call me that, _shem_.” He answered, voice rough and cracking with disuse.

“What can I call you, then?” Duncan asked calmly.

Theron was quiet. He’d expected Duncan to have treated him the same as every other _shemlen_ had, to call him ‘savage’ or ‘knife-ear’ or simply ‘elf’. There had been none of that from the Warden, despite how difficult Theron knew he was being by refusing to speak. He was sulking as he grieved, like a child that couldn’t get what it wanted. He’d had his _vallaslin_ for seven winters now, surely acting like a child was far beneath him?

“Theron.” The hunter eventually supplied, tossing a handful of dry grass onto the fire and watching the stalks be devoured by the flames, consumed entirely until they were ashes.

“You are not the first to be torn from their home by the Grey Wardens.” Duncan offered.

“That’s supposed to comfort me?” Theron answered bitterly, not looking up again from the fire. He huddled closer even as he shut his eyes against the light, and a shiver ran through him that wasn’t because of the night air.

 

The next day, as they finally joined the Imperial Highway and headed due south for the last few miles to Ostagar, Duncan told the Dalish elf all about Garahel, the elven Grey Warden who had defeated the Fourth Blight by striking the killing blow on the Archdemon responsible. An archer who had united outcasts and found allies among dwarves who lived on the surface, apostates and elves that had once been slaves, and those who would otherwise look down on an elf came to respect him.

Theron remained silent, eyes on the road at his feet as he once again gave no indication he was even listening. Duncan looked up towards the sky once he had finished the tale, noticing how the summer sun was further across the sky than he would ordinarily have liked, the noon heat starting to wane as their feet kicked up dust. The Dalish elf, for all his endurance that was no doubt strengthened by the darkspawn corruption spreading inside him, was slowing down. His eyes were slightly glazed over with pain, his shoulders and gait oddly stiff as sweat gleamed on his tattooed brow. There was no doubt about it; he was dying, very slowly, but keeping it hidden like the proud - or perhaps merely stubborn - Dalish he was.

Duncan relaxed once they were in sight of the ruins and the road became paved underfoot, glad of the chance they would both have time to rest before the matter of Theron’s induction into the Grey Wardens. He had survived the journey without a single complaint or mention of his condition, so with any luck that resilience would see him through the Joining, perhaps even the coming battle.


End file.
